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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166844">Tunnel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansmultitudes/pseuds/deansmultitudes'>deansmultitudes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Universe, Check the end notes for more warnings, Choking, Claustrophobia, Confined Spaces, Darkness, Established Relathionship, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Horror, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Season/Series 08, Protective Dean, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, altered perception, minor injury, shackles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:55:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansmultitudes/pseuds/deansmultitudes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An injury during a hasty job makes Dean, Sam and Cas split up in the underground tunnels. Confused and trapped in a maze of walls that seem to shift at the will of something evil, Dean's frantically searching for his loved ones.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Supernatural Eldritch Bang, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tunnel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for SPN Eldritch Bang 2020. Thanks to the awesome mods for running the challenge!</p><p>Check the gorgeous art made for it by Bees Are Awesome <a href="https://twitter.com/bees_awesome/status/1319740246326534144">here</a> and don't forget to drop some praise for it</p><p>Huge huge huuuge thanks to my amazing beta and cheerleader <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fpwoper">fpwoper</a>.  Not sure this fic would see the light of day without your support. Thank you ♥</p><p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleangel">Gii</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxystiel">Galaxystiel</a> for their help and to all my lovely RLF people for their patience with my whining :)</p><p>Last but not least, thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco">tco</a>, for everything. Ily, bro ♥</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Check the end notes for more warnings (containing spoilers)</b></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>The red blossoms on Sam’s skin. The swelling grows as they watch it in the beam of Cas’s flashlight. The gigantor was bound to go tumbling down some stairs and break an ankle sooner or later. He just had to pick the worst possible moment for that: in the middle of a case, down in this shithole of a tunnel.</p><p>“It’s not broken,” Sam claims, trying and failing to hold back a grunt, “just sprained.”</p><p>“Uh-huh, we’ll see about that,” Dean mutters, lifting Sam’s foot as gently as possible and resting it on his lap. The hissing sounds escaping Sam’s lips on every touch vouch for Sam’s words. If it was broken, it wouldn’t be hurting like this, right away. But a sprain doesn’t make things any better.</p><p>“Really, just give me a moment and I’m good to go.”</p><p>It doesn’t take a degree in orthopedy to figure that no, Sam’s not gonna be good to go, not for a while. Putting strain on his injury could majorly fuck up his tendons. Not to mention, slowed down like this, he’s not only useless, but vulnerable, too.</p><p>“Sorry, man. You’re grounded.”</p><p>Sam tries to protest only for a moment, until he lets the foot down with a breath too much impetus.</p><p>Dean shifts his flashlight up behind Sam, to where they came from. There ain’t that many stairs to beat, but each one is narrow and a little too tall, as if they were designed to make any terribly misguided tourist stumble and snap their neck. He wouldn’t be too surprised to find the missing couple’s bodies right here at the bottom. And a bunch of skeletons too. That’d solve a few decades long mystery and surely be one for the books.</p><p>No such luck, though. If there are still any bodies to speak of, they’re rotting in the monster’s lair. Hopefully, the Kellers aren’t among them.</p><p>Once Dean and Cas manage to somehow haul Sam’s ass up the stairs, it’ll still leave about half a mile of meandering the tunnels to reach the exit. It’s doable, sure. A pain in the ass, but doable. Then they’ll drop Sam off at the motel and return to check out the place, just the two of them.</p><p>But they gotta beat those godforsaken stairs first and they could really use the littlest bit of support from Sam’s hurt foot for that.</p><p>“Alright, we’ll take ten,” Dean decides. With some rest, the ankle should get better before it gets worse, “then we’re heading back.”</p><p>Behind Dean, Cas lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t have to see his face to know what it means. In fact, in this moment, Dean is damn glad the visibility outside of the three circles of light is nearly nonexistent, so that he can’t see Cas’s face when he turns to him. It doesn’t make the miserable look in his eyes, his lips pressed as tight as his fist any less vivid.</p><p>Just a few months ago, Cas could have fixed that major setback of a minor injury with a touch of his fingers—now he can’t so much as ease Sam’s pain.</p><p>Dean steps closer to Cas, shoulder to shoulder. He finds his free hand in the darkness. The tension’s there, as expected. He knows Cas all too well. He wraps his fingers around Cas’s wrist, the thumb brushing the soft skin covering his veins.</p><p>“It’s just a sprain,” he reminds Cas, under his breath, nuzzling Cas’s ear. The words and the caress can’t take away Cas’s frustration but it helps ease him a little, or at least makes his fist loosen. “A couple days and Sam’ll be good as new. Well,” he adds louder because he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t—the legendary hunter Sam Winchester defeated by a bunch of stairs—he’s never gonna let him live that one down, once everyone’s safely out of here, “except for his pride.”</p><p>Sure, Dean finds it pretty frustrating as well. Every second that they’re stalling lessens the chances of finding the missing people alive. And they’ve been gone for hours already by the time they reached this town.</p><p>But there’s nothing they can do about that now—about Sam’s leg, about Cas’s fizzled out grace—so what’s the point of getting angry? Cas’s fall wasn’t his fault nor his choice, though since Heaven’s Gate closed, that was pretty much a given. Sure, it had been nice to have an angel on their team, able to save their asses and kiss their every boo-boo better. But in the end, no one’s gotten <em> really </em> hurt and that’s what matters.</p><p>A huff of soundless laugh escapes Cas’s lips, as Sam glares in Dean’s direction. That’s better. Dean rests his chin on Cas’s shoulder and with one, last reassuring squeeze, he pulls away to slump down on the relatively clean patch of ground at the feet of the stairs.</p><p>There’s space for Cas, there, but Cas doesn’t follow suit. Instead, he sweeps the area with his flashlight to make sure no toothy dweller is coming for them. Beyond the stairs, there’s a solid wall, half-covered with graffiti. Whichever of the kids gone missing in the last decade or so painted it, it was the last thing they’ve ever created.</p><p>Why do teens always have to find the worst possible places to have fun in? Haunted houses, abandoned institutions. Dean’s never been a stickler to the rules, but ‘Keep Out’ signs tend to have a point.</p><p>But then, here they are. A bunch of guns and knives between the three of them, zero information on what nasty can be hiding here, and no plan. Dean might not like research but he likes going in blindly into what for all intents and purposes is a deadly trap even less.</p><p>Cas swings the light to the other side of the corridor. The gray shade of the back wall hardly shows in the light, but at least they know this section doesn’t veer off forever. It’s not a deadend, though, there are still the crossing paths Dean can see by the way the light breaks.</p><p>The search without a map might take them forever. Dean checks his phone for a message from the town hall clerk. She promised to let them know when she finds the blueprint that she swore must be there, somewhere. But there’s no reception this deep underground and the battery is almost empty too. Maybe it’s not the worst thing that they have to pop back up.</p><p>“I’ll go check the corridor,” Cas announces. “You two stay here.”</p><p>“What?” Dean’s eyes widen. “The hell you’re not! We’re not splitting up.”</p><p>This one rule they set before even stepping a foot in. Because when did splitting up ever not end in a huge fucking mess?</p><p>“You do remember there are two lives at stake?” Cas says with a sassy tone Dean doesn’t appreciate.</p><p>“Oh, I do,” Dean barks back. “How about we not make it three, huh?”</p><p>But Cas, of course, has to be a stubborn idiot.</p><p>“It’s not that far,” he insists, pulling out his gun, as if he didn’t even hear Dean’s concerns. “I’ll stay in your eyesight at all times.”</p><p>Because having him in eyesight will do much when something much faster than any of them jumps Cas and tears his throat to ribbons before Dean can even get up off the floor.</p><p>This is stupid. Dean needs to stop Cas before he moves out of his reach. Maybe if Dean can level with him, look him in the eye, he’ll knock this dangerous idea out of his head. But before he can push himself up, he’s betrayed by Sam’s hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“We can’t waste time,” Cas says, using the opportunity. “I can handle myself.”</p><p>With that, he turns towards the tunnel and starts walking.</p><p>“If you get dead, I’ll kill you,” Dean calls behind him, but doesn’t move.</p><p>Cas is right: they don’t have time. And he isn’t a baby—he can fight, he proved it time and time again, both in the gym and on the hunts. He’s got the combat training, he’s got the muscle strength, and he’s learned not to try to fall back on the powers and the invulnerability that he no longer has.</p><p>Yet, it’s still a struggle, squashing down the urge to follow Cas. He can’t shake the image of Cas disappearing into the darkness, even as he keeps his light firmly trained on Cas’s back, watching for any movement off in the shadows around him.</p><p>But Sam’s far more vulnerable than Cas, right now. He couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t run. So Dean stays, though still fuming at both his companions.</p><p>“What the hell was that, Sam?” he asks, not taking his eyes off Cas.</p><p>“Cas is trying to be useful.”</p><p>Dean holds back a snort. “He’s not gonna be useful when he’s dead.”</p><p>“Come on—”</p><p>“Did you miss the part where we’re in a friggin’ Bermuda tunnel?”</p><p>“And last week we were in a vamp nest,” Sam says like that’s supposed to mean something to Dean. “You don’t see it, do you?”</p><p>“See what?” Dean really doesn’t have patience for Sam’s cryptic shrink-talk. “Clearer, please.”</p><p>“You’re being overprotective, Dean.” There’s no accusation in Sam’s tone, rather softness that makes something stir in Dean’s chest. He knows what Sam’s gonna say next. “Ever since—”</p><p>“—Cas fell, yeah,” Dean cuts him off. “He’s a human now, humans are squishy.”</p><p>“I meant to say ever since you and him—”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“I’m happy for you.”</p><p>“I said shut up,” Dean says firmer, but he’s sure his smile bleeds into his voice.</p><p>It’s only been two weeks or so since he and Cas finally stopped being idiots and realized they’re more than friends—been more for a long time. But it’s like they say, better late than never.</p><p>At the end of the tunnel, Cas takes a careful look to the side passage before turning back around. He gives Dean a small nod, as he begins walking towards them again. His face is a little too far to read it—too far to see it, really—at the edge of the light.</p><p>So, yeah, Dean might be a little overprotective; losing Cas now—how could he bear it?</p><p>But there’s something more than that, right here, right now.</p><p>With each step he’s getting closer, it’s almost a relief. But Dean won’t be truly calm until Cas is safe within his arm’s reach.</p><p>“I don’t know, man,” Dean tells Sam, quietly. “There’s something about this place—”</p><p>He picked an awful timing for the confession. Almost as soon as his words leave his mouth, Cas stops abruptly, turns his flashlight to his left. His other hand follows, the gun’s ready; Cas shoots twice at some threat only he can see.</p><p>Then he runs off into the passage.</p><p>“What the fuck?” Dean’s up on his feet before the echo of the firing dies down, but Cas is gone. “Cas!” Dean bellows. “Cas, wait!”</p><p>Torn, he hesitates, looking down at Sam. The moment of delay might cost him too much, but he can’t just leave Sam here to be chomped down. But then, if Cas is chasing the monster, this should be the safest place for Sam to be in.</p><p>“Go!” Sam says, raking safety off his gun. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t waste another second. He sprints after Cas, calling him an idiot under his breath. The passage isn’t too far away, but by the time Dean reaches it, Cas must have already taken a turn because he’s nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Dean keeps on chasing, calling Cas’s name. He couldn’t have gotten that far. He only had a few seconds of a head start and Dean’s still a faster runner than him.</p><p>At least there are no forks in the road. Just the long, winding tunnel, turning sharply time after time, with a dozen or so yard long stretches between them. Dean swung his light from one side to the other to make damn sure about that.</p><p>He knows Cas is still somewhere before him by the even sound of hasty footsteps. Every time Dean’s sure he’ll catch him, spot the flair of his light plaid shirt as he turns the corner, no matter how much he picks up the speed, Cas is not there when Dean spills into the straight stretch.</p><p>About ten turns in, it starts to get ridiculous. How long can the tunnel be? How far could Cas have gone and still have the echo carry his steps? And why the hell isn’t Cas stopping, even though Dean’s been calling him like an idiot, pleading for him to wait. Catching the monster isn’t as important right now, as it is to find Cas.</p><p>“You promised to stay in my eyesight, you dumbass!” Dean shouts. ‘Cause being angry is easier than letting the stupid feeling in his chest gnaw on him.</p><p>There’s no turn after this stretch. Instead, Dean halts to a stop in a wide chamber where the tunnel splits off into three.</p><p>“Oh come the fuck on!” Dean barks, his eyes darting left and right between the pathways.</p><p>There are no markings on the walls of any of them. No footprints left in the dust. There’s no trail of blood either, which is good. Cas isn’t hurt. He’s probably still running after the thing just so he can come back with a win.</p><p>“Cas, you idiot,” Dean grumbles, running a hand over his face.</p><p>A still distinct sound of footsteps ricochets through the chamber although it’s getting fainter. It surrounds Dean in a way that makes it impossible to tell where it’s coming from. Could be either of the corridors, could be the one behind him. Could be in the fucking ceiling disappearing in the darkness above him.</p><p>Dean closes his eyes and slows down his breathing. He needs to be quiet if he wants to listen, he needs his heart to quiet down too. With enough focus, a few soundless steps to the mouth of the right tunnel, maybe he’ll get a clue. Or maybe he’ll get all three of them lost for good.</p><p>A gunshot ripples through Dean’s bones. His eyes snap open, his muscles attack-ready in a blink. It’s the tunnel on the left and there is no doubt about it. Dean shoots toward it without hesitation, straight into the gaping hole that seems to swallow even the light of his flashlight.</p><p><em> Monsters don’t shoot guns, </em> Dean reminds himself to still the anxiety rising up his spine. <em> Cas shoots a gun. </em> It helps, faintly. But there’ll be no ease ‘til he sees Cas safe and sound; smoking gun, the monster down, in the pool of its own blood.</p><p>At least his legs forgot they were tired and they carry Dean, picking up the momentum, as the beam of the light swings like a pendulum from the impenetrable darkness before him to the dirty ground below.</p><p>He misses the sound of Cas’s steps. At least then, he knew he was going the right way. That he was going toward Cas, not farther away from him. Now all he’s got is the sound of his own breathing, the rocks scraping beneath his boots.</p><p>The tunnel seems to go on forever and could really use some change of scenery. But as the light sweeps ahead—this isn't what he meant. He hoped for a landmark, not a solid wall five yards ahead.</p><p>It’s too late to halt fully. His feet tangle as he tries to slow down, but he’s not fast enough and, with impetus, he slams into the wall, his left shoulder taking the brunt of it. A grunt slips out of his mouth. That’ll leave a bruise, nothing more. He’s fine.</p><p>Or he’ll be fine as soon as he figures out where the fuck the rest of the tunnel has gone. He sweeps around, frantically, the light sliding along the solid walls. It’s a dead end. He must have been wrong.</p><p>He was sure; the gun shot was so clearly coming from this tunnel. He can still evoke its ringing in his left ear. The sound must have ricocheted. That’s what echoes do. Fuck with one’s senses and brain, play them like a trickster and lead a guy astray.</p><p>Going back is the only thing he can do. He doesn’t run this time. His legs could use a break, in case there’s something to chase after, or something to run away from. There’s hardly a point, anymore. He’s wasted too much time, put too much distance between Cas and him. His chance to catch him is blown: by now, Cas might as well be in the very heart of this maze. Dean’s gotta be smart, not fast.</p><p>He’s not sure what he’ll do once he reaches the chamber. There are two more corridors to explore and he’s got a feeling they aren’t gonna be this easy. He might as well do eenie meenie miney mo on them and hope for the best.</p><p>Except he won’t get the chance.</p><p>‘Cause where the exit should be, Dean hits a stone wall.</p><p>“O—okay, that’s not right,” Dean mumbles under his breath, casting the light around its corners.</p><p>It’s coarse and solid, made of the same rock as the rest of the corridor. Dean presses his hand to it, as if he had to make sure he’s not just seeing things. He must be seeing things because there used to be an exit here, he should be looking out into the stupid chamber, not staring at the wall.</p><p>But it’s here, it’s real and there’s no pushing it away. The stone scrapes across his skin as he drags his hand from side to side.</p><p>What the hell is he looking for? A lever? A loose stone he could push and open the secret passage he could swear was here? There’s no draft in the corners and the untouched spiderwebs tell him the wall hasn’t popped out here in at least a couple weeks.</p><p>What is he even talking about here? Walls don’t move. He got lost. That’s all.</p><p>There must have been a fork in the road, too well obscured by the play of light and shadow that he never even knew it was there. He took the wrong turn when he thought there was only one.</p><p>Retracing his steps—again—is his only way to go. Annoying as fuck, but still.</p><p>He doesn’t run this time. What good will haste do? If he takes another wrong turn, he’ll only waste more time. The light slides with ease along the walls. He swings it like a pendulum left and right and left, impatient for the exit to reveal itself.</p><p>There’s still so much darkness left to penetrate before him. But each step puts more darkness behind. There’s nothing there but that; the dead end, the cold stone, the cobwebs.</p><p>So why does it feel like someone is watching him? Someone, something. Like a pair of eyes boring into his back, right between his shoulder blades where his muscles tense up.</p><p>Dean slows down, but doesn’t stop. He can’t give himself away just yet. His grip tightens on the flashlight. The right hand on his holster. For a moment, he holds his breath so he can listen for the sound of something creeping up behind him. But there’s nothing. Only silence.</p><p>And it’s coming closer. On each heartbeat, it’s more tangible and it seems to fill the whole space behind him.</p><p>Dean snaps around, gun in hand. Finger on the trigger. The light clearing his line of sight.</p><p>There’s nothing.</p><p>Floor, ceiling, wall to wall. There’s nothing there. No movement or shifting shadows, not a faint ghastly light of a disappearing spirit.</p><p>It’s only Dean’s imagination. Just the big, bad hunter being afraid of the dark.</p><p>“What are you, five?” he chides himself before turning back around and pressing on.</p><p>He doesn’t put his gun away this time. There’s still something in these tunnels. It might jump him any moment and he’s gotta be prepared for that. But it’s not behind him, it couldn’t be. So he gets a little better at ignoring the raised hairs on the back of his neck.</p><p>This is gonna be a long walk. How long has it been? Half an hour, at best? And he’s so fucking done already. The only thing he wants is to grab Cas and Sam on his way out and be done with this place.</p><p>But he’s gotta find that stupid son of a bitch, first. How come it always seems to be this way with Cas? In Purgatory, Dean at least had company and a trail of bodies to leave behind. Here he’s got nothing. Not a single fucking breadcrumb.</p><p>The light hits a wall ahead. For a second, Dean’s breath catches in his throat. But it’s not a dead end, this time. The wall is angled to the left, leading to nowhere. He turns the flashlight to the right.</p><p>“Yatzee.”</p><p>There’s the freaking fork and there’s the way to the chamber. The design of the walls lends itself perfectly to illusions. Dean followed the curves of the tunnel right where it wanted him to go, back and forth.</p><p>Now that he knows where he’s going, it shouldn’t be much farther.</p><p>He picks up his pace, the soles of his boots thudding steadily against the ground.</p><p>Whenever he reaches that damned chamber again, he is going to pick the middle tunnel. For all he knows, it might lead him even deeper under the town, and he doesn't have to like it, but he has to try and find Cas. Besides, isn’t it always like this? The only way out is through and all that?</p><p>So that’s as solid a plan as any. And he can only hope that by now, Sam’s ankle got better and, as agreed, he hauled his ass out of here.</p><p>Or maybe Cas is back with Sam and they’re waiting for him, debating whether to go in to look. At this freakin’ pace, they’re all gonna get lost. Mystery solved, and there ain’t even any monsters needed.</p><p>They really should have brought walkie-talkies. Dean checks his phone, a little naively, on the off-chance that he does have reception. If he does, he won't know: his battery's dead. Now all Dean’s got left is to walk and hope for the best.</p><p>With every step he has to suppress his long-honed instinct telling him there's something wrong, there's something there behind him.</p><p>Still, every now and then, his muscles tense up, his spine itches and he can't stop himself. He whips his body around, ready to shoot, ready to fight whatever monstrosity has been creeping up to him. But there's still nothing. An empty corridor, the same walls ad nauseam.</p><p>How long has it been anyway? Dean cats a long look around, as if he could find a point of reference, anything familiar about the surroundings. But every inch of the wall looks the same to him, it’s impossible to tell how much of it he’s put behind and how much left there is to cross.</p><p>Though Dean could swear—</p><p>No. He’s just getting tired of running around. It can make any trip insufferably long.</p><p>Though, shouldn’t the chamber be in sight by now? Ahead, the walls keep stretching out as far as Dean’s light can reach. But it’s not like Dean has any other choice but to keep going.</p><p>So he keeps going—he starts running again—more frustrated with each step. Hopefully, this ain’t the sort of nightmare where he can never reach the door. He’s been there way too many nights before. And this time he’s not dreaming, though he’s beginning to wish he was.</p><p>A touch on his right arm makes him jump. He lifts his gun but what he points it to is the wall. He must have gotten carried to the side. Except when he tries to move back to the center, he hits the other wall.</p><p>When has the tunnel become this narrow? A few steps forward and his shoulders can hardly fit in.</p><p>Dean turns around. Now that he takes a proper look at the path he left behind, the change is there, gradual but steady.</p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellows, slamming his fist into the wall, only hurting himself in the process.</p><p>He’s in the wrong tunnel, again. How can this be fucking possible? He’s wasted so much time and energy, pushing on. When did that happen? Did the tunnel steer him into the wrong node again, or should he have gone farther back at the fork?</p><p>Dean runs his hand across his face. He hates to be a whiny brat, but this aimless trodding is beginning to take its toll on his legs. He can’t slump down on the ground and take a rest, though. He has to keep moving, or retreat and find the right way out.</p><p>A rustling sound reaches his ears before he takes more than a few steps away. Rocks scraping on the ground. Footsteps. Behind him.</p><p>It's not just that ghastly feeling this time.</p><p>Dean turns around, light shining deep into the narrowing corridor. There’s something there, a dark shape, hidden right outside the reach of the light. Is it a person? The monster? Or is it just a tall rock that’s blocking the path?</p><p>It moves. Dean takes a step forward.</p><p>“Hello?” he calls. If it’s a monster, it knows Dean’s here, anyway. “Who are you?”</p><p>The form freezes for a moment, as if deciding whether to call back to him.</p><p>Dean plows on, shoulders hunched to fit into the corridor. If he can only get the light to shine on them—</p><p>But the shape moves again, farther away from him.</p><p>“Hey! I wanna help you!” Could this be one of the Kellers? Or one of the other missing people, seeing light for the first time in days, weeks—afraid what it might be bringing? “I’m with the FBI, I can get you out of here!”</p><p>That’s rich of him, given he can’t even get himself out of this damn tunnel. But that doesn’t matter. He has to stop the person, find out if they know more than him. They might have seen the monster. They might have seen other people here.</p><p>But the person doesn’t stop. Dean picks up the pace, twisting his upper body as the walls close in on him.</p><p>“Come on, wait!”</p><p>He’s about to give up—maybe the person doesn’t want Dean to catch them—when the light lands on the shape for a split second, a hunched back turned on Dean. He’d recognize white shirt criss-crossed with thin blue lines anywhere. Just this morning, Cas pulled it from Dean’s drawer and put it on, complaining that all of his shirts are dirty.</p><p>“Cas? Cas!” Dean shouts, as loud as his throat will let him. “Cas, it’s me, Dean!”</p><p>He can’t let him slip away, again.</p><p>But Cas still isn’t stopping. Can he not hear him? Do the walls distort Dean’s voice beyond recognition?</p><p>Is Cas still stubbornly chasing the thing or...is he just running away from Dean? Getting as far as he can, trying to shake him and leaving no crumbs. Like there’s something better out there and it doesn’t matter that Dean needs him right here.</p><p>No—why would he do that? Why would he wanna abandon Dean, alone, in this place? They should be finding each other—they have fought for it so hard, before.</p><p>Except, it wouldn’t be the first time Cas left him, just like that.</p><p>“Please, Cas, wait for me!” he pleads, but Cas doesn’t even flinch.</p><p>Dean’s hair brushes against the rock. He slams his palm to the ceiling. When did it get so low? Just what Dean fucking needs. Explains why Cas’s form appears so twisted and small, before disappearing beyond a turn.</p><p>Dean swears under his breath. He's so fucking fed up with this place, its twists and turns and the design straight from Escher's wet dream.</p><p>With a craned neck, Dean keeps moving. Cas's name spills again and again through his clenched teeth. It took Dean months to find Cas the last time they played this game of cat and mouse. And then he lost him anyway.</p><p>Soon, as Dean's lifted arm guides him lower, his spine curves into a bow, his knees bend on tense calves. This ain't fun and it's burning, every muscle, every stretched tendon.</p><p>Is it trying to tire him out? So that when the boss fight comes, he rolls over and takes the hits like a meatsack?</p><p>It's near damn impossible to squat with his thighs stacked together, let alone keep moving like this. At last, it's zero to one for the fucked up game of Limbo as Dean's knees buckle and hit the ground with a concerning creak.</p><p>It's getting fucking undignified. He's dragging himself on all fours like a dog, for nothing. He was seeing things, he must have. There was no dark shape, no white-and-blue shirt, no Cas. Just the light reflected on the smooth stone.</p><p>It couldn't have been Cas because Dean's seen Cas be many things but not a simpering dog cramped in a filthy hole like this. Cas is the size of a skyscraper. Being stuffed into a tiny, human body must be humiliating enough.</p><p>Dean should have never let him fall, should have never plucked him from the sky.</p><p>He'd never have to drop to his knees, scared and alone and not significant enough for this fucking tunnel to have some goddamn respect.</p><p>Once they're out, it'll be a good joke, just between them. All about dark and tight spaces. It'll be another nightmare too, of the gentler kind.</p><p>What's a gloomy, stone tomb to what they've both been through?</p><p>The tunnel had its end, but it's not the end of the road. If the stacked stones and clean angles have been the cruel design, this is where the real Shawshank begins.</p><p>The hole is hardly person-sized. Bored into the solid rock. Dean shines the light inside. It goes a dozen or so feet deep before curving off to the side.</p><p>He's not fucking crawling in. If he does, he's sitting ducks. Besides even if this hole leads anywhere, it's not somewhere he wants to be.</p><p>And, well, Dean fucking hates tight spaces. It's not claustrophobia, okay? He will push through if he has to. But there's just something about the walls closing in around his body, blocking his movement and making him vulnerable to any threats that might come after him that makes him really fucking uncomfortable.</p><p>He must have walked a mile or more by now. Half of it testing the limits of his spine and he's getting way too old for this. But he can only be mad at himself. For believing his eyes when he shouldn't have. Did he want to see Cas so desperately that he made up his presence?</p><p>Or—</p><p>Dean guides the beam of light, back inside. Back to the gleam of white that caught his eye. It's lodged just a few feet deep. He should be able to reach it without crawling all the way in. And so he does, dragging himself in on his elbows.</p><p>Once he's close enough, he puts the flashlight down right before him and reaches out with his arm. He manages to pinch the piece with his fingers and pull it back to his eyes. It's about a two by two inches piece of torn fabric. The same damn fabric, white with crossing blue lines of Dean's plaid shirt. Cas's plaid shirt. And along one edge, it's stained with blood.</p><p>So Cas was here. Really. Dean's got a proof of it now in his hands and he closes his first around it savoring the scrap of comfort. It's not just his eyes he can believe now.</p><p>Cas is bleeding, but it's probably nothing, there are only a few drops of it. A scratch from a sharp edge of a rock that tore through his shirt and his skin.</p><p>Cas crawled through this tunnel, so there is a way out on the other end of it. And Cas might be waiting there on the other side. Or at least it will take Dean closer to finding him.</p><p>So Dean pushes down the discomfort building in his stomach, puts the scrap of fabric in his pocket, and dives in. The flashlight still in one hand, gun in the other, pointing ahead, ready to shoot.</p><p>It's not so bad at first. Dean knows how to crawl. There's still some stamina left in his arms and legs. Little by little he pulls himself deeper.</p><p>It's like dragging himself across big Lego blocks. Whoever bore this shithole, did a piss poor job of it. The rough, poking edges, grate across his ribs, bite again the bones of his forearms. His shirt is thick enough to protect his skin from tearing, luckily.</p><p>The pain lets him focus on the task, rather than the darkness creeping up being him.</p><p>It must be the darkness. The same thing that's been accompanying him all this way. Or maybe just the anxiety, whatever he may call it.</p><p>Still, Dean's calves tense, stupidly, his toes curl in his boots. He feels like a child whose feet poke out from under the blanket. He wants to pull his legs up and hide them from sight before the monster can reach out and grab him with his claws. But there's nowhere for him to hide. If anything's creeping behind him, it's got him on a silver plate.</p><p>He tightens his grip on his gun. It's a faux comfort; it would be nearly impossible to shift his arm back to shoot when he's got barely enough wiggle-room to grovel.</p><p>It's nothing, there's nothing there, he tells himself. The feeling should have gotten old by now, but he can't shake the new intensity of it.</p><p>But it's just 'cause he's stuck in this crawl hole, that's all. There's no hungry creature following him.</p><p>The crawlspace narrows rapidly. The bulging blocks protrude from every side. Like someone got tired of their tedious job.</p><p>But a glance across tells Dean why. It's not much further before the light spills into a wider space, another corridor, for sure, but anything's better than this.</p><p>It's a final stretch and he'll be out of this shit hole. If he can make it through.</p><p>To free his hands, he sets the gun and the flashlight down, pushes them forward, making sure they're still on his reach. He grasps the rock to pull himself in, he bends and twists his body into aching shapes.</p><p>He moves inch by inch, maneuvering between the bulges and sharp edges that threaten to shank him at any sloppy movement.</p><p>It's getting harder to hold on, his palms slippery with sweat. He pumps the air out of his lungs to make himself narrow. He puts all his strength to it, to push himself through the tightest spot as quickly as possible.</p><p>On both his sides, the sharp rocks grate along his back and along his sternum. He can almost count his own ribs. If he so much as breathes, he might be done for.</p><p>But he makes it through. Clear, he gasps for air as if he'd been nearing the edge of hypoxia, not holding it in for a few seconds. Each breath puts tension on his stomach.</p><p>It's so close, it's so close, he keeps reminding himself, as he recuperates.</p><p>Just a final push, one kick to get his pelvis through and he'll be out of this hell.</p><p>The sole of his boot slips while the other propels him forward but he manages to slide past the narrowing, landing on his back.</p><p>He almost made it. A few more feet and his fist will wrap around the opening. He tenses his muscles to roll onto his stomach when a dull pain surges through his side.</p><p>He can't move.</p><p>The tightness in his chest grows.</p><p>He crooks his arm to slide it along his torso, feeling for a wound though he knows it's not that sort of pain.</p><p>His fingers find the rock protrusion pressing his hip bone to the floor in a vice-like grip. The miscalculated thrust lodged him like a perfect little puzzle piece.</p><p>With the other hand, he flips the flashlight. Craning his neck as far as he can without taking his scalp off, he takes a peek at his side. Is that a bruise? Dark, sprawling under his skin?</p><p>No, no, it can't be. It's just a shadow. His skin is pressed tight to the bone. The bone won't move, as his fingers try to pry it every which way.</p><p>"Come on, come on!"</p><p>His fingers curl into a fist. He drives a punch to his side to force his hip to move. He hits his stomach, his thigh, but nothing gives. All that it gets him are a couple more bruises in the making.</p><p>He slides the light up the stone to examine it. If it's a loose rock, maybe he can lift it. Just a little bit would be enough.</p><p>But it's not, it's one solid wall, an outgrowth of this fucking hellhole bent on not letting him go. It's never gonna fucking let him go.</p><p>Dean levers his shoulder against the wall. Though his muscles are all fired up, he gives all that he's got, pushing himself away. His hip doesn't budge even a hairbreadth.</p><p>He bends his neck back, sends a wistful glance at the exit. He was so close. Now he's gonna rot here.</p><p>"Cas!" he calls, though he doesn't expect an answer. "Cas, if you're there, please!"</p><p>Of course, Cas isn't there because Cas won't wait for him. Won't save him this time.</p><p>Dean drives his fist into the low ceiling. Something comes off it, falls on his face, and he squeezes his eyelids shut to avoid the debris: dust, crusty pebbles, soil. No, not soil.</p><p>It's not soil seeping through the cracks, it's not the wooden lid of a coffin that arches above him.</p><p>And yet, it arches above him. Tight, locking him in, blocking the air—it's getting thinner by a second. Dean gasps, quick and shallow, violent last breaths.</p><p>Oh God, not this, not this again.</p><p>His fingernails scrape against the stone above him. He can't punch his way through, this time. He can't crawl out through the dirt and emerge on fresh air, afternoon sun, nuke blast site.</p><p>The way he came back to life he will leave it: abandoned in a lonely grave. And this grave will hold him down for good.</p><p>No—he can't just die here like that, he cannot. He didn't go through the shit that his life has been just to die here like a dog, with this tunnel as his tomb.</p><p>Would anyone ever even find him? Sam, Cas? Another lost adventurer? Or will the monster at least feast on his body? Somehow that sounds better than rotting here in these catacombs.</p><p>He was building something, at last. Maybe in the end he could have had a life. But this? Not a demon, not the apocalypse. Just some freakin' hole, stupid, lifeless piece of rock trapping him. It can't end like this.</p><p>This cannot be his end.</p><p>This will not be his end. If he can only calm himself down. He turns his shape, ragged breath into familiar notes of a Metallica song. One of the few, little comforts he can always fall back on.</p><p>As long as he can hum, he can breathe. The air isn't going anywhere. It's just his lungs trying to devour too much of it, all at once.</p><p>But it's only panic. It's fear. And fear can't kill him.</p><p>With a trembling hand, he reaches down again. If his hip managed to pop into this trap, it has to be able to come out, too. Even if it hurts. Even if he has to break his pelvis to be free.</p><p>But first, he tries methodic, calm motions—if he can call them that. He pushes himself away from the wall, as hard as possible, while his slippery fingers pull at the skin.</p><p>He keeps working until the spot is tender and sore, until every touch feels like it might rip apart. Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing. Underneath, the skin trends to be slippery enough. If he lets the stone peel it away, the bone should slide out: a little trick he learned from his pal, Stephen King.</p><p>If he can only reach the knife in his boot…</p><p>There’s something else he could try first, though. He moves his fingers under the rock. There’s some free space, there, between him and the wall. And it seems too arch, insignificantly, but hopefully enough.</p><p>Instead of pushing himself away, he finds footing on the opposite wall. Putting all his strength into his arm and his leg, he thrusts to move his pelvis closer to the wall.</p><p>It works. Oh God, it works and Dean gives out a relieved noise, as his body’s set free.</p><p>He doesn’t wait another second. He crawls through the rest of the tunnel. His hands grasp greedily at the edge of the opening. He spills out face-down into the ground.</p><p>His head is heavy with the frantic pounding of his heart, his lungs feel like bursting. His entire body feels like an anthill had made his skin their home. But that's just the adrenaline. Or the anxiety. Or both.</p><p>As he's trying to calm his breathing, he casts the light around the corridor. The walls a few feet apart, the ceiling high above him; it seems almost vast now. It stretches to both sides that fade into darkness.</p><p>And it's empty. There's no Cas here, no sign of him. He just kept moving, he didn't fall into that tap as stupidly as Dean did.</p><p>Or was he ever even there? He had to. Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out the piece of fabric. But there's something off about the way it feels between Dean's fingers.</p><p>He lifts it to his eyes, shines the light on it.</p><p>It's not the fabric that feels off. It's the slick blood on Dean's fingers.</p><p>His breath catches in his throat as he stares as his hands—red—his sleeves—red—the front of his shirt covered in dark, bloody streaks, soaked through, to his t-shirt; the wet cotton hot and sticky against his chest.</p><p>With quick precision, Dean checks his arms, his torso, his head for wounds he's too buzzed to feel hurting yet. He finds nothing but for a few scratches.</p><p>There's way too much blood for simple scratches.</p><p>And it's fresh, so it has to be Cas's. The wound has to be much worse than Dean thought.</p><p>Dean shines the light on the ground. There it is. The gleaming trail, it's leading right.</p><p>"Cas!" Dean calls, but by now he knows not to expect an answer.</p><p>He scoops himself up to his feet, ignoring his quaking knees. At least he doesn't have to play trial and error this time. Especially since he might not have too much of it.</p><p>A few steps farther, the trail of blood thickens. The spatters, more frequent, grow well past the size of pennies. Well past the size of a flesh wound or the volume of what Cas can survive in the long run. Especially not if he doesn't start pressing his goddamned wound. Dean's taught him that, gave him some basic first aid training.</p><p>Why the hell is Cas letting himself bleed out?</p><p>Dean runs faster than he thought he can still run, Cas's name a constant on his lips. Cas couldn't make it too far. He's gonna be crouching here somewhere, by the wall. Too weakened to walk. To weakened to move.</p><p>Or dead.</p><p>No. He can't be dead. He can't.</p><p>Dean's gonna find him and fix him.</p><p>The floor squelches beneath Dean's feet. He halts at once, casts the light down. There's a bloody puddle and he's standing in the middle of it.</p><p>It's too much, there's too much blood. Cas couldn't have survived it. He's dead and his body’s been dragged away. Ahead, the puddle stretches into a smear.</p><p>Dean points the light at the drag marks, follows them farther and farther away from where he's standing. Until the light meets not another puddle but a pool of thick, crimson sea covering the ground.</p><p>"What? No—"</p><p>Dean stands frozen as the blood creeps up to his feet. It flows around the soles of his boots, then rises in mesmerizing waves. More keeps coming, cascading down the walls, falling off the ceiling.</p><p>Wherever his light reaches, there's nothing but blood.</p><p>Dean blinks.</p><p>The ground is steady. Dry.</p><p>There's no sea of blood. His arms and clothes are clean, so is the path that led him here, there are no gleaming reflections when he casts the light behind him.</p><p>The only red present is bright, dried paint. Its squiggles curling around the stone paved floor.</p><p><em> What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? </em> he thinks, running his fingers through his hair. The gun is cold as it touches his scalp.</p><p>So he's seeing things. He's feeling things too. His bloodied t-shirt clinging to his skin. It was so real.</p><p>It couldn't be: just his senses going haywire. How is Dean supposed to trust anything in here, if he can't trust his own mind?</p><p>Except for one thing, the plaid scrap grasped in his fist; his little anchor. It's here, so Cas was here and Dean can find him. Dean puts the piece of fabric back in his pocket to avoid losing it. He can’t lose his one connection to Cas.</p><p>Everything else is a distraction.</p><p>Including the graffiti sprawled across the floor.</p><p><em> No escape, </em> it says.</p><p>Dean preferred the amateur art and tag practice by the stairs.</p><p>Were these made by the same kid? Possible. It doesn't matter. The kid is dead now. Everything that walks in here dies.</p><p>
  <em> No rescue. </em>
</p><p>But not Dean. Not Cas. They can't… As if they're that fucking special.</p><p>The tunnel's never gonna let them out. But that doesn't matter right now, he'll deal with that later. The only thing that matters is finding—</p><p><em> You can't save him. </em>The writing stretches along the wall.</p><p>Goosebumps raise up Dean's spine. This feels a little too personal for comfort.</p><p>A soul-tearing cry echoes in the distance. Then more screams, inhuman almost, and crunching and thumping. Like a losing fight.</p><p>Without thinking, Dean shoots towards it. Human or monster, he just wants to see another living being. And hopefully not be too late to save someone.</p><p>Another thud and it all goes quiet. So awfully quiet. But the light catches something in the distance. Two shapes discarded on the ground: one by the wall, the other smack in the middle of the path.</p><p>Two people. Dead. Or dying.</p><p>The white shirt on the one a little farther back stabs out against the dark backdrop.</p><p>Dean's heart hammers in his chest as he runs. He opens his mouth to shout but his lips refuse to utter Cas's name.</p><p>Forty, thirty yards away, he recognizes the brown jacket on the other person. The same brown jacket Sam had on when Dean left him all alone on those stairs.</p><p>No. Not Sammy. He wasn't supposed to be here.</p><p>How can he be here?</p><p>Why aren't they moving?</p><p>Dean slows down; his legs threaten to give in with each step. With one hand pressed to the wall, he manages to make it to Sam.</p><p>He drops to his knees right beside him.</p><p>A few feet away, Cas is lying with his face down in a pool of his own blood.</p><p>Sam—he doesn't have a face at all.</p><p>No, there is a face. It's covered entirely with brownish blood and crusted stands of his hair, but it's there.</p><p>Dean can hardly see it, his vision blurred. How could this happen? How could he miss them, by just a short moment? They were right here.</p><p>If he only got to them a few seconds earlier.</p><p>"Wake up, Sammy." Dean's voice is small and broken. He can't even hear himself above the pounding in his ears. "Cas, please."</p><p>He grabs Sam's shoulders to shake him, gently. To do something that can wake him up, because Sam can't be dead.</p><p>But he feels different. Narrow and thin. Dean knows by heart the way holding Sam feels. Embracing him alive, cradling him dead.</p><p>"Come on, Sammy."</p><p>He reaches to Sam's face. Brushes away his hair—stiffened with blood and sticking to his skin. With his sleeve, he begins to wipe away the blood that must have come from the cut on the forehead.</p><p>More blood comes off with each gentle stroke. Dean doesn't stop even as it becomes apparent—the face beneath is soft and round, smeared with traces of pink lipstick along the purple jaw and the noise is pierced with a silver stud.</p><p>It's not Sam.</p><p>It's Clara Keller.</p><p>It doesn't bring Dean relief. The tears don't want to stop pouring.</p><p>He let the Kellers die, too. He let everyone die. </p><p>"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says, wiping the blood away from her chin. He can't clean it all, there's so much more blood. In her hair, on her jacket, deep under her fingernails. "I should have been faster. I should have saved you."</p><p>Saving people, taking care of Sam and Cas, that's damn job and he couldn't even do that right.</p><p>On his knees, Dean rushes to the other corpse. It's not the right shirt, now that he can see it up close. It's plain white, without blue, crossing lines on the fabric. Dean gets a grip on the man's shoulder to turn him over and by touch alone he knows it's not Cas. It doesn't feel like Cas.</p><p>Joe Keller. There are long, deep scratches all over his face. One of his eye sockets is a gaping hole.</p><p>Judging by the stiffness of his limbs and the coldness of his skin, he's been lying here for at least a few hours, just like his wife.</p><p>They'd been dead long before Dean arrived here. Somehow it doesn't make it any better.</p><p>The monster didn’t even eat them or drain them of their blood. Didn’t tear their hearts out for dinner. The thing is murdering just for the heck of it.</p><p>How could he leave Sam to the mercy of something so cruel? How could he let Cas get lost in its sprawling lair? He might as well have killed them himself.</p><p>Cas lost so much blood.</p><p>No, no, he didn't. There was no blood. Or was there? Dean closes his eyes, presses his hands to his head as if that could help him make sense of his thoughts.</p><p>Cas and Sam aren't dead. They can't be. Dean'll keep telling himself that, though it sounds like a lie. He needs something that will keep him going.</p><p>He has to keep going. He has to keep searching. Just in case.</p><p>How long has it been?</p><p>He walks. 'Cause what else is there to do? At every turn he seems to be chasing another intangible shape, another echo.</p><p>There are more sounds now, the ruckus of a fight, more cries, always too far for Dean to catch them.</p><p>Was it Cas's throaty scream for help? Was it Sam's furious bellow?</p><p>The only sound Dean can trust to be real is his own voice calling out their names. As if that can do any good. Dean's useless. Running around like a rat in a maze.</p><p>He can't save them. He can't even be there when they need him.</p><p>Cas is gonna die. Sam is gonna die. Dean might as well rot away in here. All that he'll have left of Cas is this stupid, precious rag. He roots around for it in his pocket, but as he pulls it out, the scrap slips out of his fingers.</p><p>"No!"</p><p>Dean drops to his knees, as the piece disappears in the darkness. He frantically searches the ground, but the thing is gone. No, he's not ready to let go of Cas yet.</p><p>He slides his palms across the floor, eyes scouting every inch of it.</p><p>A dull thump steals his attention. Something rolls towards him in the darkness.</p><p>Not a ball. More like a roughly hewn rock, but there's a softness to the sound. It stops rolling right before him.</p><p>It's a head, chopped off. With a hat, beard and Benny's blue eyes staring right through him.</p><p>Dean jolts up, back to his feet. This can't be— He buried him. He cradled Benny's head gently, tucked it in the ground in that forest in Maine and buried it with the rest of his body. He can't be here.</p><p>How could Dean ask so much of him? That very, empty stare had been haunting Dean's nightmares, yet now, he can't tear his eyes off it, as he backs away.</p><p>Another step and Dean's foot slips from under him. He drops his flashlight and lands on his ass with a disgusting squelch on something wet, thick and chunky. It can't be blood, not just blood.</p><p>He feels for the flashlight that went out as it hit the ground. Instead, his palm lands on something slick, squishy and long, almost snake-like.</p><p>He yanks his hand away, and kicks his legs to get as far from it as possible, but the slippery ground makes it difficult. He finds the flashlight by sheer luck and almost twists his wrist on it.</p><p>In the light, he can see the serpentine thing is not a snake. It's not alive. It's a pinkish, bloodied pipe, soft and wilting. As his eyes follow its length, he realizes what he's looking at. The long intestine. And at its end, it sinks into a stomach, swirls like a wire among the rest of bloody guts.</p><p>Jo's guts.</p><p>Her body colorless, slumped half-seating against the wall. Her dead eyes stare at him with accusation.</p><p>"Who is doing this?" Dean bellows, his voice scratching in his throat. He waves his gun around at the darkness. "Who the fuck is doing this?"</p><p>There's no answer.</p><p>He flails his hands and legs trying to get up and behind him, his palm meets something wet, but it's not thick blood—it's water. It's just water. Maybe there's an exit that way, out into the river that borders the town.</p><p>He turns to his knees and gets up, starts running to put Benny and Jo behind. Like he always does. Leaving the trail of corpses in his wake.</p><p>But there's no escape. He hits another wall. There's always another wall. With tall letters, there's only one word sprayed on it.</p><p>
  <em> MURDERER </em>
</p><p>Though the paint is black on dark rock, its glistening makes the writing clear. It looks fresh—too fresh. Almost alive, with the thick layers of paint streaming down in thick drops.</p><p>Dean reaches to it before he can stop himself and touches the paint with the tips of his fingers.</p><p>It's not paint at all. He knows the texture of it all too well. Black goo. Dean winces in disgust but doesn't pull his hand away. The wall beneath the goo is soft. It's not rock, more like clay.</p><p>Dean slips the gun into his holster, puts the flashlight on the ground to free his hands, and digs into it. Scrapes away bit after bit and throws the clay to his feet. His fingers begin to hurt but he ignores it. He digs until the clay reveals something.</p><p>Not a hole into a passage. Something pale. Right outside the ring of light.</p><p>Dean keeps scraping, uncovering more of the paleness, its round shape. The trails of goo from the wall keeps pouring over it and Dean reaches to wipe it away. The moment he touches it, he knows he's touching skin. Then two eyes open and Dean jumps back.</p><p>It's Cas's face. They're his eyes. But they're not his eyes. The figure frees himself from the wall: the pale coat, the twisted tie, and it moves towards Dean. The goo flows down, no longer from the wall but from Cas's dark hairline, from his eyes, nose and mouth.</p><p>He keeps walking towards Dean. A crooked walk, a puppet bursting at the seams. The Leviathans. Cas's dead body.</p><p>Screw the flashlight, Dean's running out of there. But when he turns he can't take more than a few steps until another figure appears in the darkness. There's a bandage on its head but blood keeps seeping out of it anyway.</p><p>"Bobby, please," escapes Dean's mouth. But Bobby's eyes know no mercy, his lips curved with hatred.</p><p>There's a gun in his hand and it's pointed at Dean.</p><p>Dean drops to his knees.</p><p>"Go ahead," he lets out through a clenched throat. "Kill me, please."</p><p>He let everyone he loves die, anyway. This is mercy.</p><p>The cold steel of the barrel presses to Dean's forehead. Dean closes his eyes.</p><p>Bobby shoots.</p><p>The blast snaps Dean's head back. But he doesn't drop to the ground.</p><p>When he opens his eyes, Bobby is gone. So is the water mixed with the goo that Dean was kneeling in. There's something hot trailing down Dean's face. He touches it; it's blood. His own, this time.</p><p>Dean feels his forehead. Hesitantly, he touches where Bobby's gun was pressed just a moment ago. There's a wound there, a gaping hole in Dean's head.</p><p>"What the—"</p><p>Is he dead? Is he a ghost? But when he moves around, there is no body parted from him. He seems to be whole, functional, except for the hole in his skull.</p><p>Dean drags himself across the floor. There is no one around him. No Bobby, no Cas, no other people he left for dead.</p><p>Now he's gonna die here. Maybe just as he deserved, all alone, in this craphole. With his back pressed against the wall, he waits for his brain functions to subside, for his body to shut down.</p><p>As the blood seeps out of the wound and into Dean's eye, something else pours in.</p><p><em> You're worthless. No one’s gonna find you here, </em> the hail of voices says. <em> You'll rot and your soul will be trapped here for eternity. </em></p><p>He never heard the Kellers' voices but he knows it's them. And Kevin's mom and Sarah Blake.</p><p>
  <em> They're dead. You killed them. You're a monster. </em>
</p><p>It's Pamela and Ellen and Ash.</p><p>
  <em> You should have stayed dead. </em>
</p><p>It's everyone he couldn't save. Their voices turn into a buzzing cacophony that kills all his senses.</p><p>Dean hides his head in his hands, covers his ears tightly to block the voices that keep coming as if they were seeping through the hole in his head.</p><p>Dean musters every thought to form a sentence that's his own.</p><p>"I'm so sorry, Cas."</p><p>Dead or alive, Cas can't hear his prayers. He's just a human now. But in case there's still some sliver of the angel radio left in him, Dean's gotta try.</p><p>"I couldn't find you. I couldn't even find myself. I never even—"</p><p>He never said the words to Cas. The only words that matter. Why did he wait until it was too late?</p><p>"I love you, Cas. I've loved you for so long."</p><p>Is this what people mean when they say prayer brings them peace?</p><p>Or is he confusing peace with quiet? The uproar in his head is dying down. It's lights-out in his mind, at last, everything becomes silent and distant.</p><p>"Dean!"</p><p>There's a hold on Dean's shoulders, shaking him until his eyes open.</p><p>There's a face hovering before him, eyes wide. Cas.</p><p>Dean lifts his arms to shield himself from another bloodthirsty echo.</p><p>"Dean, it's me."</p><p>He pulls away, gives Dean some space. Could it be really Cas?  After all this, can it be Cas who finds him?</p><p>Does it matter?</p><p>The buzzing in his head is gone. Dripping down his face, there's only sweat. When he touches his forehead, he finds nothing but a few scraps.</p><p>And most of all—</p><p>"Cas."</p><p>He's here. He's tangible. When Dean lays his palm on Cas's cheek, he doesn't disappear or run away from him.</p><p>"I thought you were dead," Dean admits.</p><p>His muscles protest as Cas helps him up. His legs are weak, barely hold him upright. It doesn't matter. Cas has got him. Cas has got his firm arms around him and he won't let him fall.</p><p>"I thought the same about you, Dean," Cas says. "I'm sorry I ran, I was sure—"</p><p>"Doesn't matter."</p><p>Nothing matters as long as Cas is here. His shirt smells of sweat and dust and soap, its fabric soft in Dean's grasp.</p><p>It takes a lot of strength to pull away.</p><p>"What about Sam? Have you seen him?"</p><p>"Sam is safe. We were looking for you for a long time but his ankle got worse. I left him in an enclosed chamber." Dean doesn't like where this is going. He knows this place too well. But Cas points to something at their feet. A can of spray paint. "I've marked the way."</p><p>Dean lets out a soft chuckle. It's so good to have a reason to smile, again, and for that reason to be Cas. Dean didn't think he'd ever smile again when Cas was dead.</p><p>No, no he wasn't. Cas is here.</p><p>Dean presses a palm to his temple. It's still not all right up there. Even with Cas there, right beside him.</p><p>"Alright, let's find Sam and get the hell out of here. I'm beyond done with this place."</p><p>Cas doesn't say anything when Dean finds his palm and interlocks their fingers. He even gives him a reassuring squeeze.</p><p>They walk back the same way Dean came here, at least at first. Dean couldn't recognize all the turns if he tried. But with the red marks left by Cas on the walls, and with Cas right here, the tunnel seems so plain and innocent.</p><p>Or is it another trick? Wouldn't be the first time the tunnel played with the spray paint.</p><p>"How much longer?" Dean asks.</p><p>Cas doesn't seem to notice anything wrong. "I didn't exactly find you on the third turn left."</p><p>It can't be this easy. There's no way this freaky place could be defeated by a can of paint, just like that.</p><p>"Yeah but are you sure we haven't taken extra turns or something?"</p><p>Cas opens his mouth to say something, but closes it when he looks at Dean. His eyes widen with concern.</p><p>"Dean?"</p><p>"Did you see it? All of that?"</p><p>Cas shakes his head. "I saw the shadow. And the— Dean, the Kellers—"</p><p>"Are dead, I know. Not what I—"</p><p>Dean licks his lip, not sure how to explain. The blood that wasn't there, Bobby and Jo, and that feeling, that constant feeling of guilt he couldn't get rid of. Still can't get rid of.</p><p>Cas was dead.</p><p>Cas is right here, piercing Dean with his stare, waiting for what he's got to say.</p><p>"Doesn't matter, this place was just fucking with my head."</p><p>Dean slips fingers into his pocket, but the scrap is not there. Of course, he lost it. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need it when Cas is right there, alive and present.</p><p>His eyes glide down Cas's torso. There it is, the bottom of his shirt is ripped. Dean's hand follows. Cas winces as Dean touches the bared patch of Cas's stomach; it's bruised and scraped to the blood, but it’s dried up by now.</p><p>Cas was real. He was there, in that crawlspace. His anchor. Cas has been the only real thing all along.</p><p>Dean lifts his palm to Cas's neck and leans in for a kiss. It begins chaste but Cas pulls Dean in and deepens it.</p><p>"You kept me going," Dean says against Cas's lips. "I was so scared."</p><p>"It's okay," Cas coos. He offered Dean comfort, his body close, his thumb gently caressing Dean's jaw. "I'm here. I'm not letting you go."</p><p>Cas steps even closer, pushing Dean until his back hits the wall. Dean swallows hard. This isn't that crawlspace, he reminds himself. It's just a wall and Cas is right here. Nothing bad can happen to him.</p><p>Cas slips his flashlight into his pocket, then takes Dean's out of his hand.</p><p>"What are you—?"</p><p>"Trust me," Cas says, dropping it to the floor.</p><p>They're only illuminated by a dim light reflecting off of stone walls.</p><p>Dean can barely see Cas's face but Cad finds his lips in the darkness. There's nothing sweet about it. Dean lets out a muddled, surprised hum, as Cas's tongue licks its way into his mouth.</p><p>Dean doesn't mind.</p><p>If Cas needs to feel Dean as much as Dean needs him, he doesn't mind.</p><p>He'll cherish the firmness of Cas's body pressed against him, the crooked fingers biting into Dean's flesh, the sharp edges of his teeth grazing Dean's bottom lip.</p><p>He doesn’t mind, though he’d rather be out of here. He’d rather be in the motel room, savoring the moment before falling asleep in Cas's embrace.</p><p>“Shhhh,” Cas hisses, though Dean never said a thing.</p><p>He doesn't even move, as Cas’s lips slide down his jaw, down his neck, as Cas’s fist yanks down the collar of Dean’s shirt to free his collarbone.</p><p>It feels filthy and wrong, here of all places. The whole tunnel might be watching. But Cas is insistent. And Dean doesn't mind.</p><p>He lets Cas fiddle with his belt and drag the pants to his ankles. Cas's hands are cold and rough from the dust, but his mouth is warm as it gets Dean ready. It makes Dean forget for a moment where they are, what he's been through.</p><p>They’ve only done it once before, in the comfort of Dean’s bed. Cas wanted to take it slow. Dean wanted to teach him of every inch of his body, of closeness and of pleasure.</p><p>This is so unlike it, so passionate and born of need, born of fear. This is gonna leave bruises but it's worth that price.</p><p>When it's over, it leaves Dean in a daze much sweeter than the screams and the blood and the bang of a fired gun did.</p><p>He'll leave thinking for later: about why and how, here of all places. So out in the open, vulnerable, even in this darkness.</p><p>For now, he holds on to Cas's hand as they keep on walking. They don't talk about it. There's no need for words.</p><p>"We're here," Cas says, at last. There must be something different about the sweeping strikes of his marks that told him, because Dean couldn't tell this corridor apart from all the rest.</p><p>Dean wipes the goofy smile on his face and double-checks his fly. Sam doesn't have to know.</p><p>Cas points the light to a tall and narrow hole in the wall a few yards away.</p><p>Dean can't help picking up his pace and pulling Cas along. He just wants to see Sammy, at last. Have both people he loves close to him. As long as they're together, they will find their way out.</p><p>He shines the light into the opening; sighs in relief that it's a door to a chamber, not another tight corridor.</p><p>"Can you see him?"</p><p>There's a figure sitting on the ground, right outside of the light's reach. Dean slips through the doorway with Sam's name on his lips, not letting go of Cas's hand.</p><p>He freezes as the circle of light reaches the man. He doesn't have Sam's long, brown hair, or his build or his jacket.</p><p>Instead, there's a mess of black hair on his head sticking out in all directions. He's wearing nothing but a white undershirt and boxers.</p><p>Thick, iron shackles restrain his wrists and ankles, the chains tie him to his spot in the center of the vast chamber.</p><p>The man raises his head, eyes finding Dean's, and moans out Dean's name.</p><p>Dean's heart skips a bit.</p><p>“Cas? What the—”</p><p>The hand slips from Dean's grasp and as Dean turns around, all he can see is a rock swinging right at his face.</p><p>Everything goes black.</p><p>It's still all black when Dean opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, hoping to discern anything—shapes and silhouettes. But the darkness is too absolute.</p><p>He lifts his palm to his eyes, to make sure he's still got his eyeballs. They're there. There's blood too, trickling down his face from his forehead. That explains the merciless pounding in his head and why he's lying on the cold ground.</p><p>The rock. The hands that held it, it's coming to him. Cas. No, not Cas. The monster.</p><p>It was the monster, all along.</p><p>From the moment he found Dean. When they—</p><p>Nausea rises in Dean's stomach. Dean can't think about this now. He has to focus on what's right in front of him.</p><p>Something glistens on the ground right before his face. A few drops of a liquid, flickering orange. When Dean touches it, it doesn't feel like blood or water. More like oil.</p><p>It's familiar in a way that rings alarm bells in Dean's head, even before he pulls his fingers up to his nose; it's been a while since he smelled it last, but it's unmistakable.</p><p>Holy oil.</p><p>"What the hell?"</p><p>What do angels have to do with this whole thing?</p><p>"Dean?"</p><p>Dean's head snaps toward the source of the voice. In a faint light he can see the shape of Cas, about ten feet away, sitting on the floor just like when Dean found him.</p><p>He looks different though, his hair flat against his scalp, plastered on his forehead—dripping on his face. His clothes are drenched, his skin reflects that same orange glow that illuminates the chamber.</p><p>The light. It comes from the entrance, shaky and growing with each moment. Its source is obscured from Dean's view at first, but he can almost recognize it from the terror on Cas's face.</p><p>Holy oil. Fire.</p><p>There's fire, creeping up on the oily trail stretching from the doorway to the tight circle surrounding Cas.</p><p>Dean scrambles off the ground, shoots forward. The yank at his ankle makes his legs slip from underneath him and slams him back on the floor.</p><p>There's an iron shackle on his left ankle, the same kind that binds Cas's limbs.</p><p>"No, no, no!"</p><p>This can't be happening.</p><p>Cas isn’t even an angel anymore. Why holy oil? Though that doesn't matter. Humans aren't fireproof. Anything flammable will do; it might as well be gasoline dripping down his cheeks. His cheeks that will soon turn into a living wound.</p><p>Any loose movement Cas has he uses to get as far from the slithering fire as possible, but it only buys him a few inches.</p><p>“Dean, please,” Cas cries out. He can't hide the horror in his voice. "You have to save me!"</p><p>But Dean can’t reach him. All he has to do is to stop the fire from getting to Cas, but Cas is too far away.</p><p>Dean’s trying to stretch himself out. If he could, he’d burn his hands to the bone to stop the fire from taking Cas. But he can’t reach that far and there is nothing there that he could throw at the slowly crawling up flames.</p><p>He's got nothing he could use to pick a lock in the shackle. He can’t rip his foot out of it, but he's still trying. He doesn’t care about the damage it will do to his foot, his tendons and bones.</p><p>If he had a sharp object on him, he’d go full Saw on his leg and he wouldn’t care, as long as he could save Cas. But all his weapons are gone.</p><p>All he can do is watch the flames light up the ring around  Cas. Then it reaches inward.</p><p>Split second, it sets Cas ablaze. The fire encompasses his entire body.</p><p>Human throats should not be capable of this kind of scream.</p><p>His clothes melt into his skin and his skin melts off his bones. The stench of burning meat becomes unbearable but it hardly even registers to Dean.</p><p>Cas is burning.</p><p>Cas is dying a death so painful—Dean knows too well the agony of it, after all these years, he remembers. Hell.</p><p>Except, come morning, Cas's body won't be made whole again.</p><p>Then it all goes quiet—no, Cas goes quiet.</p><p>The fire doesn’t.</p><p>The one blessing is the numbness once all his nerve endings have incinerated.</p><p>Dean’s watched Cas die before, but never like this. It’s almost worse than just losing him forever. And God better fucking bring him back, like he did before.</p><p>Because this cannot be the end.</p><p>Dean couldn't save him. Now he can’t even cry.</p><p>Just like that, it's all done. Just like that, the fire dies down on what's left of Cas.</p><p>The chain on Dean's leg snaps.</p><p>Dean’s not even capable of noticing the cruel irony. He rushes to Cas's side, but he can’t even touch him.</p><p>His entire body is a wound.</p><p>And then in the silence left in the wake of Cas’s scream, comes the quietest sound.</p><p>Cas lets out a rattling breath. He’s still alive.</p><p>Oh God.</p><p>How could he live through this? How can he still be clinging to life—be trapped in it?</p><p>There’s only one thing Dean can do. One last mercy he can offer to his beloved.</p><p>His fingers wrap around Cas’s neck.</p><p>“Dean, please,” his tortured breath seems to whisper. Begging for a relief.</p><p>And relief Dean will give him. He'll let him go.</p><p>It seems to last forever. Dean doesn’t release his grasp until he’s sure that Cas is truly dead.</p><p>His suffering is over.</p><p>Dean doesn't even get to mourn him.</p><p>There are sounds coming from the corridor and Dean knows what’s about to happen. Sam will come in, first, and right behind him the creature wearing Cas’s face. Dean’s not sure he’ll be able to look at that face, but he has to act before Sam, too, ends up in chains and Dean—well, Dean’s probably next in line for becoming a human torch.</p><p>He deserved it, for not saving Cas from his awful end. After Dean saves Sam, come what may. But he has to save Sam first.</p><p>He doesn’t have any weapons on him but fuck that, he’s got two bare hands that have already done the worst thing in his life.</p><p>He hides right at the entry, listening to the approaching footsteps. Just as he suspected, there are two sets of them and they’re coming near.</p><p>“He’s in there,” comes a voice that isn’t quite Cas’s, isn’t Sam’s either.</p><p>But it doesn’t matter, it’s close enough for Dean’s surprise.</p><p>Dean jumps out. Aiming straight for the monster. For just a second he’s taken aback: it’s not Cas’s face that’s hiding behind Sam. It’s his own. His own posture, his own clothes. Except for the movements—those betray the thing. Just a little crooked as the thing tumbles backwards to dodge Dean’s punch.</p><p>“It’s the monster, Sammy!” Dean shouts, as Sam paves a way for him. Dean has no time to check if Sam registered his words, if he is on Dean’s side. That's fine, he’ll take the thing down on his own.</p><p>Dean punches and kicks but the thing’s pretty good at this, if a little wobbly. Could it be injured? Is that why it’s playing its sick little games instead of grabbing its chew toys like a good little monster should? Dean hopes it is. He hopes someone before them took a big, painful swing at it before their lights went out.</p><p>“A little help, Sammy?”</p><p>But Sam just stands there behind him, wordless. And the thing keeps taunting them.</p><p>“Come on, Dean," it says with a gross smirk. "It's me!"</p><p>Dean's fist connects with its jaw. "Shut the fuck up."</p><p>At last, Dean gets the upper hand and slams the monster on the ground. Without hesitation, Dean lands his hands on its throat, a gesture too familiar, but he tries to push that thought away.</p><p>The monster writhes underneath him, calls out for help, with words that make no sense, words Dean refuses to listen.</p><p>The thing will die, it’ll die right now for what it did to Cas, for what it did to him, earlier, in that tunnel, wearing Cas’s body, wearing every inch of it.</p><p>Dean pushes with all the strength that he has, pushes until the bone structure under his hands cracks, until the trachea collapses and the monster can’t catch a breath. Its entire tall, wide body expands as it’s gasping for oxygen.</p><p>And when that stops, when the legs cease to kick, when no more movement comes from the body, Dean still waits—just a little bit longer, just to make sure.</p><p>Just a little bit longer, while the clarity returns to his mind. He blinks, as in the darkness, the shapes seem to shift before his eyes. And yet they feel like they’ve always been the same; the exact same huge frame, the same floppy hair now splayed on cement.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Dean blinks again. He must be seeing things. He murdered the monster. He murdered the thing wearing Dean's own face, the face that looks at him every day from the mirror.</p><p>Not this. He didn’t do this.</p><p>He didn’t touch Sam. Sam was somewhere there behind him.</p><p>“Sam?” he asks, snapping his head around.</p><p>Sam was just there, he had a flashlight, he made everything so bright and clear. Now Sam’s face is the only thing Dean sees. Beneath him, pale and purple, at once. Blood poured over the whites of his eyes, every single vein damaged from the strain as Sam struggled for life.</p><p>As he fought for his life that his big brother choked out of him.</p><p>No. No, no, no, this isn’t Sam.</p><p>“Sammy?!” Dean shouts into the darkness. His voice tumbles around the walls and comes back to him. “Sammy!”</p><p>He has to be here somewhere. Maybe the tunnel stole him away, again, maybe it drew a wall that misled him on the first wrong step. Maybe Sam simply saw that Dean’s got this and walked on, maybe he went to check on Cas.</p><p>Yes, he must be there. Must be by Cas’s side. Must be kneeling by the charred corpse of his best friend, too shocked to respond to Dean or even hear him.</p><p>Sam is not lying on the ground, dead and broken.</p><p>Dean stumbles onto his feet. He leans against the wall for support. The chamber’s right there, if he only follows the wall. When he lifts the flashlight from the floor, he can see the entrance just ahead of him.</p><p>“Sammy, Sammy,” the word lingers on his lips as he passes the threshold.</p><p>He knows exactly where he left Cas, without looking, he lands the beam of light at Cas’s leather shoes, their polished tips softly reflecting the light.</p><p>Dean opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He forces his hand to move, to shift the light farther. To look for the dark figure kneeling by Cas’s burned corpse. And it slides up, crawling on the blue jeans wrapped around Cas’s legs, up the premade holes Cas had always found annoying.</p><p>
  <span>It moves up to the soft skin revealed at Cas’s midriff where the hem of his white-and-blue shirt raised as he struggled—but not torn. It’s ashen, but it is not ash. It’s not bubbled off and sizzled and flayed. Not a mark on it from the fire, not a wet trace of the holy oil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gone are even the shackles the monster put him in—was there ever a monster? Was any of it real, its bloodlust or its touch? Or was it all just in Dean's head; like the fire and the bullet? He was stupid to ever trust his own eyes, his lips, his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s knees shatter against the hard ground, skin tears at his palm. He only manages to move because he has to touch him. He has to know: it’s a mirage for sure, isn’t it? Cas’s body—it cannot be this intact. It cannot be whole, unbeaten, unburned, unharmed. Blood beneath his fingernails being the only sign of a fight, as he dragged them across his murderer’s skin. They left desperate scratch marks that look all too much like those on Dean’s forearms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he isn’t unmarked, isn’t unharmed. Or else he’d be breathing. His heartbeat would be pattering in this silence as loud as the pounding of Dean’s own heart in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes wouldn’t be staring dead into nothing, the blue of his irises in the midst of the blooming red of his whites. His lips wouldn’t be purple to match the color of his neck, of eight long bruises, like fingers, spreading out from his caved-in throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no mark on Cas’s body, but the mark from the love of his life that choked that life out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings:<br/>Dub-Con, Being Burned Alive, Doppelganger, Mercy Killing, Unwitting Murder of Loved Ones</p><p>_____</p><p>Commends and kudos always very much appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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